Vania and the Scanrans
by lyredenfers
Summary: AU: Joren is alive, Scanrans are misunderstood. Princess Vania is Prime Minister. Warning for ice sculptures, sensitive warriors and a complete inability to take anything seriously.


**Vania and the Scanran**  
Part One: Panic! at the Castle_  
This one is for Imogen._

"So what you're saying," said the Crown Prince to the King's Champion through gritted teeth. "Is that my baby sister has been abducted by Scanran warlords?"

"No, that's not what I said." Joren of Stone Mountain frowned impatiently, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "If you'll recall, I said that the Scanran delegation has left and that-"

"And that Vania is missing," Roald interrupted, evidently distressed.

Joren didn't deign to acknowledge the Prince's uncharacteristic rudeness and continued, "-that subsequently the Prime Minister is nowhere to be found."

Roald shook his head. "There's no difference between the two."

Joren sighed, sneaking discreet looks up and down the solid, stone hallway before dragging Roald by the sleeve into a shadowed archway. "The difference," hissed Joren, silencing Roald's protests, "Is civil unrest and mass panicking in the streets. Call it my way and it's a merely a small public relations situation."

Reclaiming his arm from Joren, Roald matched the other man stare for stare. "We have to get her back."

"Clearly." Joren mouth twisted into a sneer. "The country needs her leadership."

Roald resisted the urge to sneer back; insults were ineffective. "How many people know?"

"Not many," admitted Joren, leaning backwards against a statue of Sir Emrys the Courageous. "As of yet. Lucky for us the Council of Lords is, ah, dispersed."

Roald tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing the Champion's face for answers. "That's another thing that worries me, Joren. I come back from the border just three days before the new councils sessions are set to begin, and yet not a single counsellor is in residence."

"Well," began Joren slowly, looking as if the world had given him a headache.

"Say it," prompted Roald. "Forget tact."

Joren eyed the Prince doubtfully, apparently wondering if the Roald could handle the bare facts. "They, your father's counsellors, have taken your his, ah, indefinite departure as a glorified holiday. Many have returned home to their fiefs, also indefinitely."

"So who's running the country's affairs...?"

Joren shrugged. "Essentially myself, your wife and Princess Lianne."

Seeing Roald suddenly pale, Joren added helpfully "Your Mother's in the lower city, too, of course."

"Does she know about Vania?"

Joren gazed upwards, at the stone portrayal of his predecessor, four titles removed. "Sir Emrys Charles Octavian the Second of Haryse was a good man," he said.

"Joren," protested Roald. But Joren was not to be dissuaded from his tangent.

"In the final days of the Great Conquests, when hope was scarce to be found for our noble ancestors, your great Great Grandfather Jasson fell unconscious on the battlefield, taken down by the stray arrow of a clansman archer. Not accepting the imminent defeat, Sir Emrys rallied the small number of loyal men and took a stunning tactical victory over the resisting forces."

Roald raised an eyebrow and responded archly, "I know the story. Everyone knows this story. What does this have to do with anything?"

"I thought you should be reminded," sniffed Joren, "That the land they won that day is the same land that upon which this very city palace is built. Good Old Chuck."

Here Joren took a step backwards, allowing Roald some personal space and indicated that the Prince should precede him down the corridor. Roald nodded and swept down the hallway, Joren a pace behind.

"You're notorious in your dislike of Queenscove," said Roald, his eyes narrowing. "I feel I should point this out."

Joren smiled prettily, without humour. "I appreciate what their house contributes to the realm," he explained. "It's another matter entirely that Sir Nealan is a charmless buffoon."

"He's an excellent healer, an asset to the crown and a dear friend," protested Roald; he felt the fool attempting to justify anything to Stone Mountain, but it would be worse, disloyal, not to make an attempt.

Joren snorted. "Of course, your Majesty, it is obviously I who lacks perception and taste."

"Evidently," said Roald, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards imperceptibly.

"Your Mother does not know," said Joren unexpectedly, addressing Roald's earlier question as they paused in front of the Royal offices, the Prince fishing for his keys. "I would humbly request that you find someone else to inform her of recent events."

"You're still scared of her, hm?" Asked Roald with a wry grin.

Joren stiffened, gathering his fleeting dignity. "I feel that this would not be my stunning tactical defeat, Highness."

"Ah," said Roald gravely before making his way into the offices, followed by Joren.

"Roald!" shrieked Lianne, looking the part of his younger sister more than that of a reserved stateswoman, and flung herself into his arms. "Thank the Gods."

Shinko smiled tiredly, and Roald met her gaze over the top of Lianne's head. "The girls are waiting to see you," she said by way of greeting and Roald noticed the unfamiliar threads of white twisting their way through her dark hair, even before gathering her into his arms.

"Mika broke her arm last week chasing jumping fences with her new young man," said Shinko, muffled by his tunic. Her tone was that of a woman who had renounced all responsibility for her children, but couldn't help herself from dwelling on their lives. "Amy's home from school, refusing to attend lectures until she's seen you. And our baby, Thayet, oh Roald, I don't want know what she's been up to these past few weeks."

"Shh," Roald planted a firm kiss on his wife's forehead. "It's alright, Love, I'll go talk to them."

"We'll find Vania, Roald," said Shinko, hands attempting to smooth away the worry lines etched into her husband's face.

Joren was perched on the large wooden desk, drumming his fingers impatiently as Lianne chewed on her lower lip anxiously.

"Hey," said Joren to Lianne, and she offered him a weak smile. "I've sent the Own's special task force after the Scanran delegates. We'll have her back before you know it."

"She's so young, and fragile," sniffed Lianne. "There were so many of them. And they're just so barbaric!"

"Come on Lianne," said Roald with all the confidence that he could muster. "This is Vania we're talking about, she's almost thirty and hardly a delicate court lady."

Joren nodded emphatically, "Once they realize what she's like, they'll be begging us to take her back."

LIanne sniffled into her handkerchief, a grin peeking around the corners. "You're probably right."

"I make it my business to always be right," said Joren, preening a little.

Shinko shot the Champion an unreadable look. "My, but that must be boring."

Roald smiled at his wife, and for what felt like the first time in days. "Sir Joren," he said. "Send word to the King's Council; they have the Crown's blessing and an extended week of recess. But if they are not sitting in their respective seats in the Council Chambers when this time is over, I _will_ find replacements for their sorry selves."

Joren smirked. "Yes, Majesty. Of course, if the messengers are somehow detained until the aforementioned date has passed, I knew nothing."

Lianne rolled her eyes. "If there's any news on Vania, we'll send for you right away. It's nice to have you home."

"Right, well, if that's all," said Roald lingering over the last word and drawing himself up to his full Conté heritage, "I must go prevent my daughters from burning down the castle.

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_If you'd like to see my Scanrans I've posted pictures here, at my livejournal, at the end of the same chapter: lyredenfers dot livejournal dot com slash 74231 dot html .  
_

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